Shadows & Leatherpieces of claire mulkieran2016-10-08T15:48:13Zhttp://feeds.feedburner.com/ShadowsLeatherWordPressClairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=5552016-01-26T19:56:28Z2016-01-26T19:26:00ZI debated about writing this. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. But sometimes something comes along that you can’t ignore. Here we are at the precipice again.

There’s a reason I’m writing this. Bear with me.

Before me get to my main point, I want to talk about visions. You see, when I was a child I had “visions”. I’ve never known what else to call them. Dreams happen when you’re asleep. Visions happen when you’re not. So, while my Mother sometimes called what happened to me “the waking dreams”, the terminology never felt right to me. I accepted them for what they were. Visions. Nothing more. Nothing less. What the word “visions” means to you may be very different from what it means for me. But it’s a good starting point.

Unless you’ve experienced what I’ve experienced, it’s hard to explain what it’s like. I would use the term “dream state”, but that infers one is dreaming. In this regard, let’s use it and pretend that we both understand what I’m trying to say, that sometimes one can enter into a dream state without being asleep or dreaming, or even losing contact with the material world around them. Let’s say that you can see and hear things while still being aware that people are around you, trying to talk to you and figure out what the hell is wrong with you. You know when they start freaking out. You know when someone inevitably suggests calling 911. But you’re powerless to talk to them. They’re there, but they’re not. That’s what it was like for me. Someone once used the phrase “walking between worlds”. That seems like a good fit to me.

When I was a little girl my Mother asked me to stop talking about my visions. Rightly so. My father was mildly schizophrenic, and Mother used to say, “he resents that the voices talk to you rather than him”. So I told no one. I kept a diary for my own sanity (which, many years later, my father found and burned); that’s another story. Pretty much, though, for the sake of what I’m writing here, let’s at least agree that these visions weren’t something that was widely discussed in my family, much less in the neighborhood.

That changed in my late teens and early twenties, at a time when some pretty horrible things were happening to me. I won’t bore you with details, but let’s just say that I became more accepting of these visions as a means of escaping a reality I was not remotely equipped to deal with.

In my early twenties these visions happened with such regularity that someone in my circle of friends would always volunteer as “Claire wrangler”. I couldn’t be trusted to get myself home sometimes. I would “slip between worlds” at any moment. Sometimes I wound up in vulnerable situations. For years my friends thought this was kind of cool. Some of them believed it was at least partially an act, but it made our social group more edgy than the norm, and they went along with it because of it. If nothing else, I was entertaining. Young minds who prefer to believe the world is full of magick, and their destinies are not for menial jobs at fast-food restaurants, but rather on the edge of culture achieving astonishing thing, go for such things. That was us. Wild evenings bore legendary tales of me acting like some wild spirit, or talking in languages I couldn’t possibly know (a friend has a recording of me speaking in a language that sounded like Sanskrit, but wasn’t). It scared the hell out of some people, but my closest friends thought it was cool, in some fashion, and no one seemed to mind overall. As one friend put it, I was a comic book character come to life. Like I said, we were young, and in some way it was all fun for them. We liked being “different”, and somehow I was the validation of that angst.

Well, it was fun until we started getting older. Then my friends began pairing off into marriages and procreative obligations. By then the glamour of being “Claire wrangler” had faded. One by one, those friends fell away. I didn’t blame them, either then or now. I was tired of myself, too, and can only imagine what it was like for them. I saw the writing on the wall. I began to stifle those visions. I knew what I felt like when they were coming on, and that helped me to short-circuit them before they could get rolling. I came up with 1,001 creative ways to distract myself, to stop them in their tracks before any real damage was done. No harm, no foul. I just found ways disconnect myself, like unplugging an electrical cord. If I was really careful, I could pass for normal. I got so good at it (passing for normal), and asserted such control over my meanderings, that I was able to attend college at M.I.T. There I found that the structure of classes and the intense focus of the courses helped me to find an even keel. For awhile, anyway.

This reprieve didn’t last.

When I returned to Asheville, I replaced old friends with new misfits from the local arts scenes. You can’t throw a rock in any direction in Asheville without hitting one wannabe Pagan or another. Among them I found a surrogate home again, in the company of people for whom my pedigree as a hereditary elevated me to some stature of importance, for whom my “walking between worlds” was venerated and encouraged. I was eccentric, but I was M.I.T. educated eccentric, and that sounded much better than crazy. They enjoyed tales of my past adventures, and even built up something of a spiritual component around them. They encouraged me to explore my eccentricities, and I slowly began to have the visions again. I became a teacher, of sorts, and quickly discovered that at least some of what I said and believed resonated with some people, and that the weirder things got the more some people liked it. If I got nothing else out of M.I.T., I had learned the ability to put my thoughts and ideas into coherent structures which I could use to communicate concepts with others, and I was able to describe some of what I experienced when “walking between the worlds”. It went well for a time. There was a balance. But everything goes sideways eventually. In time, I was going too far. Indulging too much. Drinking too much. People grew tired of me humping their girlfriends. Or going catatonic right in the middle of a movie. “Eccentric” is only fun on the weekends. Everybody likes to hang out with the weird chick who takes off her clothes and channels absinthe-fueled wisdom that makes you ponder the basis of reality, society, and even spirituality. But nobody wants to take her to Pizza Hut. And you sure didn’t want to feed her after midnight. Whether or not she might provide you some special kind of spiritual insight, she’s still an asshole who only thinks of herself. She won’t mean to fuck you over. But she will. The ego is a fragile thing, and some people were not cut out for a pedestal.

Anyway, needless to say, I found my way through the spiritual phase and clean out the other side. Mostly because I tried to codify it within the structure of PaganCentric. At least until I realized that trying to teach people a way to move beyond religious and societal concepts was really just another way of putting chains upon them. When you tell me people to think for themselves, and they ask you to teach them how to do it, you begin to realize that there’s a basic flaw in the human psyche which compels most of us to accept artificial structures as a way of making sense of the Universe. It’s a powerful narcotic, and dispensing it left me feeling like a charlatan. In the end, the drinking and the sex had more to do with my shame and guilt over feeling like I was pretending to be something I wasn’t, and being angry that these obvious things I was pointing out to people was being received like Word from On-High. Even when I fucked around, some of them thought it was great, and it made me despise them almost as much as I despised myself.

So I wandered off. PaganCentric’s still there, I think. No one posts there. No one knows what to do with it. The one who was driving it has moved on, and is content to see it whither.

I went back to the technology. With my uncle’s help I started indulging my knack for hacking things, and exploring patterns and pathways which others seemed to miss. I immersed myself in computer programming, and, through Uncle’s contacts, quite unexpectedly found myself contracting with various government agencies to test computer security systems. I had a knack for breaking them, and these people were willing to pay me to try. Naturally, this led me into providing security services. If you know how to break things, you know how to keep them from being broken. What I didn’t expect was that this interest in computer systems coincided with a decrease in the visions. It was like my soul was overflowing with energy, and the only way I could contain it was to burn some of it off. Like a release valve on a boiler. Computer programming can best be described as a sustained, intense focus on an objective. That burns off a lot of energy. That worked for me. For years. I’ve had around five incredibly productive years in which I’ve established my own company, and now spend my days in the company of some of the most creative and intelligent women I’ve ever known. I’ve had minor episodes here and there, but for the most part I’ve kept it together.

This changed recently. That’s the reason I’m writing now. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s possible I need therapy. It’s possible I should be institutionalized. Or at least find myself again in need of a Claire Wrangler, now that my girlfriend has moved out.

I’d noticed that everyone in the office was acting “uncomfortable”. This went on for a few days. I stay pretty busy and miss a lot of stuff in general, but I finally noticed that all of my interactions with the staff seemed like everyone expected me to scream at them at any given moment. I finally pressed them on it. What I learned compelled me to write this. Not as an explanation, but perhaps more as an exploration of what might be my descent into madness, or whatever this is. Okay, scratch the last part. I’m being dramatic. Let’s just say that I’m apparently not on as even a keel as I had thought. This is something I’ll have to work out. Honestly, it might be something I shouldn’t talk about. But if I’ve had one over-riding rule in my life, it’s always been that I try to upfront about what’s going on. I won’t hide from the uncomfortable stuff.

Here’s the deal. My senior assistant, Meghan, showed me a video of myself. In it I was sitting cross-legged on my desk, completely naked, with a Wacom drawing tablet in my lap. She was talking with me. I smiled and interacted with her, but when she would ask me a question in English, I would respond in some other language. Other than the nakedness and the foreign language, I didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. Of course, I don’t remember of it. Which is where the uncomfortable questions begin.

The reason I’ve written this unexpectedly long rumination is to provide some context, and examine where I’ve been up until this point. Of course, that I’m posting it to my web site means that I have least a passing hope that it will provide context for old friends, relatives, and lovers. It’s also a starting point. This is where we are. Soon we’ll find out where we’re going.

I’m unusually calm about this. That probably disturbs me more than anything. That all my employees now know what I looked like naked runs a close second.

In the end, what compelled me most to write about this is that the dreams I’ve been having of late make a lot more sense. I’m pretty sure that language I was speaking was something I’ve heard in my dreams since I was a kid. I’ve always understood it in dreams. Kind of like when you dream you’re in Paris and can understand French, but you really can’t in the real world. Lately I’ve been dreaming of spaceships. I’ve watched planets slowly revolve beneath me from viewing platforms. I’ve seen naked women soaked in blood slaughtering thousands of people with their bare hands amid pitched battles between armies. I’ve seen beings made of energy move around the halls of Congress, and angrily lash out at me when they realized I could see them. I’ve dreamed of zombies, but not the Hollywood types; rather, people whose brains seem to have been partially deactivated. Most importantly, though, I keep dreaming of a naked woman offering me an orb of energy (yes, I know that’s an apple in the image – that’s not a cell phone pic I took of a dream). It’s something I haven’t wanted to accept. But it’s something I know I eventually will accept. Just not today. And maybe not tomorrow.

No. I don’t know what any of this means. Yes, I’m aware of what all this sounds like. But just this once, I thought it was important to get all this down. This is where my mind is at right now. For better or worse. Visions and other annoying phenomena are part and parcel of my existence lately. I don’t know where all this is headed. But I do feel like it’s headed somewhere. Even if that’s just to me getting through my days in a straight-jacket.

On the upside, my assistant, Meghan, just told me she was going to need a raise. At the moment, I can’t argue with her logic.

]]>2Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=22912016-10-08T15:48:13Z2015-08-24T14:31:34ZI don’t write often [insert standard disclaimer here]. That much is obvious. It’s been pointed out to me that when I do write something here, it’s almost always sexual or Pagan in nature. Well… yeah. Those seem to be the issues where my buttons get pushed the most.

Anyway, I rarely post at all, but when I do it’s hardly ever a re-posting of other people’s material. But I stumbled across an article this morning which pushed some buttons. Or at least hit a nerve. It’s the issue of bisexuality. Or, more specifically, how bisexuals struggle to relate to “normal” people who are constantly questioning our “choices”.

“Apparently, bisexuality is still confusing the hell out of everyone. Even with the trans, gender fluid and intersex communities bursting into mainstream media, it seems people still just don’t get bisexuality. And because of the confusion, bisexual people are forced to struggle with annoying situations. Here are ten very real struggles bisexual people encounter.”

It goes on to list 10 examples. I could relate to every one of them as I was reading. I’ll list those in a handy bullet list here, but I encourage you to go read the entire article, and peruse the explanations.

Constant Quantifying

It’s A Phase

You’re Transitioning

“But you’re with a man/woman?”

Threesomes

What To Wear

“I think you’ll end up straight/gay”

“Bisexuals are cheaters”

Dating Websites

“Can’t you just say you’re gay while we’re dating?”

As someone who is currently trying to land a business contract with a woman who thinks “bisexual” means “threesome”, I can sadly relate to every item on that list. I have a story to tell for each and every one of those 10 sentences.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=22732015-06-30T16:30:50Z2015-06-30T16:26:16ZI’ve been receiving messages lately from “friends” on Facebook. I use the quotations not to be disparaging, but because these are people I’ve never met in person. We’ve never broken bread together. We’ve never partied in downtown Asheville. Better to have a life. If I passed any of them on the street, we probably wouldn’t know one another. If they are “friends”, it’s only within the context of Facebook.

So it surprised me when I began receiving well-meaning questions about my well-being and whereabouts, to the effect of, “You’re never on Facebook” and “We miss you.” Maybe I don’t grasp the subtleties of the online social networking experience, but I remain befuddled by the fact that these anonymous neutrinos dancing across the ether within the CPU of my computer are under the impression that we know one another somehow. Sorry. We don’t. You don’t know me.

“Better to have a life”. I keep coming back to that thought. Why do we spend so much time in search of ever more creative ways to distract ourselves? Isn’t it enough to invest in each moment of our day without obsessively seeking out ways to eat up all the other moments of our day? Doesn’t that seem even more insane when we document each step of that search on our various social networking accounts?

Yeah. There’s no real reason for this post. Honestly, I feel foolish even posting it, given what I just said about distractions.

Of the many issues people argue over, few perplex me more than the hand-wringing over bare-breasted women and nipples. They’re just breasts. Half the world’s population has them. There are literally billions of boobs just yearning to be free. Of course, like I usually do, I decided to weigh in on this issue, only to figure out that I’m not all that invested in it. I have a headache, besides. But really. I can’t think of one good reason why women should be ashamed of their breasts. I also doubt the sexual orientation of any man who is offended by their presence. So… why are women expected to cover them up? It wasn’t so long ago that it was scandalous to be without a bra. Why not take this to the next logical level?

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to state for the record that I rarely ever wear a bra. I also don’t have a problem with full nudity. Most of my employees have seen me in various stages of undress, and at least a few have seen me fully naked. In my defense, we work out of my house, and I oversleep sometimes. I’m not running around naked or partially so in an office building. I’m not an exhibitionist or anything. I’ve just never thought being naked was a big deal. I never have. We’re all born naked. It’s just a body. So the idea of a topless woman being offensive is an especially bizarre idea to me. I don’t know why women’s nipples are so shocking, while men’s are not. I’ve seen plenty of men who need to wear a bra worse than I do.

Anyway, I’ve exhausted my interest in the issue. There’s a lot more work to do yet today. So… #freethenipple

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=22112015-05-12T04:28:25Z2015-05-12T04:10:23ZIn the dream I was falling. From high in the sky. I mean, like, from an airplane high. It’s only bits and pieces now. Fragments. I didn’t feel afraid, even though I knew I was going to die. I just accepted it. Somehow I felt free, like a coil that had sprung from a box. My death didn’t bother me. It didn’t matter. I was free, and vividly remember that sensation, if nothing else.

That’s where the recollection skips. Next thing I remember was standing beside my body. It was feet deep in an impact crater. It was me, but it wasn’t me. I mean, I thought of it as my body, but I knew it wasn’t. You know how dreams are. Everything makes sense while you’re in one. The body I looked at didn’t look like me. She had darker skin. Black hair. Her clothes were shredded from the impact, but somehow the body was intact and seemingly undamaged. I don’t know why, but I marveled at how perfect my body looked. Her body. No blood. Not a scratch. It was like she had damaged the ground, but not the other way around.

And there was an angel. Well, I thought she was an angel. She stood on the opposite side of the crater, looking at me. I mean at me, not the body that I thought of as me, but which wasn’t me. As angels go, I was disappointed. She had no ethereal glow about her. She was nothing special. Except for the wings. Just a woman, looking at a body that had fallen from the sky.

“I am so not angel,” she said, smiling.

“I didn’t say you were,” I remember telling her.

She looked back at the body in the crater, and pointed at a few different areas of the crater. “Nailed the landing.”

I don’t remember anything much after that. Little more than the feeling. I remember feeling disappointed that I’d finally met an angel, and she wasn’t like I’d imagined she’d be. If she was an angel. Which she claimed she wasn’t. I wondered why she was there, if she wasn’t an angel. It didn’t seem random. She was there for a reason.

I woke up thinking about angels. Proper angels. Loins girded for holy battle and all that. It figures I’d dream of one, and she looked like she could have been just some girl waiting for a bus.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll find time to ponder this. It seems significant, even if I can’t remember most of it. If nothing else, what was the deal with my body in the crater, that was me but wasn’t me? I’ve dreamt of being in other bodies before, but this was different. I know it was just a dream, but I find myself reluctant to let go of it. Part of me wants to go back to bed and pick up where I left off. But somehow I just know that it’s gone. This feels like a window, like I looked through and saw something I wasn’t supposed to, and then the window was shut. That’s an odd feeling. The dream itself wasn’t all that weird (as my dreams go), but that feeling is something I can’t shake.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=22042015-05-03T20:57:08Z2015-05-03T20:55:54ZNo one ever really asks me if anything is wrong anymore. These days it’s such a given that it’s not worth vocalizing. Nobody needs to talk about the proverbial dark shadows that hide in the corners of the room. By acknowledging them you help give them shape. Best to keep your frickin’ mouth shut. But it’s all still there, isn’t it, however much we try to ignore it? That’s where the problems come in. We don’t talk about it. Me being sort of crazy is such a normal part of our routine around here that its overlooked, like how no one ever talks about the missing hand that someone lost in a scuba diving accident. “Oh, Claire’s on the porch again. Go fetch her. Hey, give her some clothes, too, and see if she can fix that bug in the log-in subroutine. See if she wants some coffee.”

I’m lucky, I guess. I can think of myself as crazy, and it works, because they all think I’m crazy, too. But I get my work done, and everybody gets paid, and I don’t seem to be a danger to myself. I’m a benign kind of crazy. I’m the crazy that can pass for eccentric. That’s all there really is to it, right? You don’t have to be normal. You just have to be able to pass for it when it matters.

Christ. None of this makes sense. This is not what I meant to write. Honestly, I don’t really even remember why I started writing. I just know that I stopped writing once upon a time because I have a hard time making sense now. My brain is full of jumbled up images. If you ask me my name unexpectedly, I’ll have to think about it. Not for long, grant you. But I’d totally stall for time.

I just remembered why I’m here. I’d hoped to start writing down some of the new dreams. Had a doozy last night. But writing isn’t working for me. That dream is still seared into my visual cortex, but I’ve lost interest in talking about it. Or least writing. I hate computers. Hate typing. I should stick with the audio recorder. Just talking works.

So… yeah. Screw this. “Dreams and Drop-Ships”. I don’t even know what that means now. It was a good title. Yeah, there were dreams. Of drop-ships. And angels. And demons made of energy. And exploding suns. Of god-like girls slaughtering men by the thousands. Of laughing skeletons pushing me under the water. Then there was daylight. And coffee. And exhaustion. Megan handed me a bagel this morning, and I didn’t know she was in. At least I had clothes on. I’m not sure Megan ever leaves. Sometimes I think she dematerializes each afternoon, and just reappears in the morning. I don’t know that I’ve ever actually seen her come or go.

Okay. That’s a tangent. Let’s stick an image on this one and call it a day.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=21732015-03-03T18:33:59Z2015-03-03T18:21:52ZI wasn’t going to post anything about this damned thing, but I’ve found myself thinking about it a lot today. Of course, I’m reluctant, because it’s a sexual thing, and I already stand accused (with some justification) of having an overactive libido. But this didn’t strike me as sexual at first. Okay, what I’m talking about is basically a dildo with a camera in the tip. My first thought was, “Eww. Why would you want to look up somebody’s hoohah?” But I know that for every weird thought, there’s somebody out there who’s turned on by it. For me, though, looking up inside of somebody’s vagina (even my own) doesn’t seem any sexier than looking down somebody’s throat. I love my girlfriend, but I’m not going to be aroused by photos of her spleen. Still, it’s true that humans are generally a bunch of perverted little monkeys, so I can appreciate the appeal. It just doesn’t seem like such an erotic idea to me. Nor does it appeal to me to look up inside myself or my girlfriend.

However… ever the curious little primate, I did check it out. I knew somebody somewhere would have already posted a video of herself using it, so I looked around, and in about 3 seconds found a video of it. What I saw there falls, unfortunately, under the heading of “What has been seen cannot be unseen”. That’s very true. But at the same time, I’d be lying if I tried to say that watching it didn’t appeal to the analytical part of my brain. After all, how often do you get to watch the contractions of the female vaginal walls during an orgasm from the inside? It was kind of cool to realize that this is what happens inside of my own body during orgasm.

Let’s just say that it was fascinating to watch, but it was not at all erotic. Sorry. I don’t get it. Here you have a woman who inserted this camera dildo only after opening herself with a speculum (she said it was a “pink blur” otherwise). Hey, that sounds sexy, right, ladies? We all love speculums, after all, and have had so many erotic encounters with ’em (please note sarcasm). In short, as fascinating as it was to watch, I wasn’t the least bit compelled to order one. Yeah, I like the idea of getting inside, so to say, but I’m not sure I’d want souvenir snapshots (no pun intended). There are far too many things laying around the house that’ll do the job nicely, without shoving something up there that’s connected to your computer for documentation. But… to each her own.

Anyway, here it is. Go see for yourself. You owe it to yourself to have this permanently seared into your visual cortex. No, I won’t post the video here. But I’ll post a link where you can go look at it yourself if you’re curious. If nothing else, it’ll give us something to talk about later over tea.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=21522015-02-05T13:41:07Z2015-02-05T13:41:07ZI was asked the other day why I hadn’t posted an official 2015 post to web site so far this year. I don’t know. Seems like nothing in my journal winds up on the web site. I’m just not that invested. There are plans, of course, but nothing that ever pans out. Maybe I should hire an intern to transcribe my scribbled notes and tell me if there’s anything in there people might want to read. I’m not exactly impartial. I bore me.

Anyway, whatever you may have heard, I haven’t been drunk since New Year’s Eve. True, we’ve been getting out of the house more, and I’ve been making new friends (all of whom are addicted to social media), but it’s not as sinister as it seems. Honestly, I work on computers all day, and when the work day is over I’d much rather sit on the front porch with some hot cocoa than chronicle yet another stressful day of coding. So… yeah, I’m alive. No, I’m not in rehab. And maybe… I’ll actually post something else here before 2016.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=21122014-12-15T16:16:04Z2014-12-15T15:38:22ZI’ve largely avoided the web site in recent weeks and months. There are a number of reasons. Mostly, I’ve been working a lot. My social and romantic life is more important to me, as well. Overall, though, honestly, I haven’t had a lot to say. The risks of having a life, I guess. I’d rather enjoy my life than waste any of it here. I spend enough time parked in front of a computer as it is.

But… if I had to point to one thing that most directly discouraged me from updating this web site, it certainly didn’t help things when I discovered that my estranged abusive father had subscribed to my newsletter. That’s like discovering that the battered old doll a relative gave you has a web camera in it.

Goddess. Where to begin?

I think of that man as a scab. That’s all he really is in my life now. A wound that won’t heal. Whenever he shows up in any capacity, that scab gets ripped off, and the wounds are fresh all over again. For the most part, I’ve chosen not to address this. Since I found out he’s been visiting my web site, instead of posting tidbits about my life and thoughts, I’ve avoided posting anything altogether. I don’t want him to have a window into my life. It pisses me off that even now he can be a disruption.

It’s been pointed out that I could just remove him from the newsletter subscriber base. Sure, I can (and I did), but that’s beside the point. He’s actively poking around where he doesn’t belong. Whether or not he’s subscribed to the newsletter, he can still read what I’ve posted here. Worse yet, he can dig into the archives and see where I’ve been in the past. That’s the true risk and horror of posting about your personal life on the Internet. Sometimes you want to talk about certain things, just to get them out of your system. But there’s always some sick fuck somewhere who gets off on it. As evidenced by the fact that at one point the most popular post on my web site (before I deleted it) was my account of once nearly being raped by a guy who gave me a ride in a high-end sports car. Yeah. You can talk about your pain if you like. But there’s likely some sick monster fuck out there somewhere who’s getting off on it.

So… why am I writing this now?

This is a message to all the sick fucks, with one in particular in mind. You can sit in the proverbial park all you like and try to catch glimpses of the young girls’ frilly panties, but you are the one whose soul is a bare and wind-swept place. You will never fill it with enough distractions to contradict that basic, gnawing premise that lives somewhere in the back of your reptilian brain, that you are a waste of protein, amino acids and oxygen. It’s not hard to find examples of how people like you always wind up, shivering in the dark, alone and unwanted. I wish upon you all the depravities of the darkest depths, because I know what’s in your heart, and I know how little it takes for those twisted thoughts to become horrific reality. I pray to all the gods that listen that what you visit upon others, even if it’s only in your heart and mind, will descend upon you ten fold. I will take my comfort in knowing that when you are gone there will be a little less evil in the world, and I would say “good riddance”.

May your end come soon. It cannot be soon enough for me.

]]>0Clairehttp://www.clairemulkieran.comhttp://www.clairemulkieran.com/?p=20922014-10-18T21:33:31Z2014-10-18T21:26:29ZI know I seem to post nothing but merchandise these days on the web site, but that’s because I keep getting cool stuff. So tough it out, sunshine, ’cause my new Transylvania State Zombies t-shirt came today. This is like the fourth or fifth one I’ve had, because I keep wearing them out.

The thing is, I love this shirt. It suits my prickly temperament (I go catatonic without warning). It’s one of those vibes you can wear with all kinds of different outfits (and I have). Yes, I layer. And layer.This is a good place to start.

Sure, it’s a Halloween thing, but I wear this shirt year-round. My love has threatened to bury me in it. Yes. I wear it that much. She claims to hate it, but I suspect she thinks it’s as cool as a I do. She’s just jealous because she doesn’t have one of her own. And if I ever go missing and she turns up in my shirt… well, you’ll know what happened to me.

Anyway, thanks, Auntie Victoria! I love you! You always hook me up with the coolest stuff.